


why you were creeping

by Finnie



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Other, Shalkaverse, or - the doctor decides to bring the master back from the dead and what happened after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 00:52:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12445779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finnie/pseuds/Finnie
Summary: while missing koschei from time to time is understandable, missing the master is an act of self-destruction, caring for them is digging your own grave. there was nothing that you and them could ever do save for eroding your common ground, could never fit into the same sentence that didn't include regrets and destruction.





	why you were creeping

_i had a thought, dear_

_however scary,_

_why were you digging,_

_what did you bury?_

.

 

rising from the dead is a precise skill, playing graveyard games, the gentle art of dying and coming back to life. it's always been a specialty of the master's, tugging at the hanging strings of deathclocks, disappearing with a twisted grin and intent on haunting you.

 

their entire existance is theft, living on borrowed time, every breath stolen, every step paid in someone else's blood. the master is a creature of deception and survival, and they'll keep kicking and clawing their way forward until there's no more regenerations to milk out, no more bodies to steal, and then they'll drain the stars.

 

but after the war there's a silence, an undeniable stillness on the other side of your anihilated

mental link. you're alert for centuries, through sleepless nights and remenants of days, but nothing comes back. the universe is burnt away and nothing elbows their way out of the dark. there's nothing in your head but the quivering memory of sharp laughter.

 

(if there was anything worth ruining left in this universe, the master would sniff it and crawl out to finish it off.)

 

**ii.**

while missing koschei from time to time is understandable, missing the master is an act of self-destruction, caring for them is digging your own grave. there was nothing that you and them could ever do save for eroding your common ground, could never fit into the same sentence that didn't include regrets and destruction.

 

you could do it, you really could. could pull the master's consciousness out of the void, wrap it around a string, construct them a new body that would look no less real than the ones you're used to, but at what price? maybe they'll understand. or maybe they'll laugh into your face. maybe they'll kill you for it. whichever way, you suppose it'd be better than this.

 

(do it, do it, build the mater anew! what's left, you snicker. what's left to burn? they can only poke at the singed remenants with a stick, like a child throwing a tantrum.)

 

if the doctor gives in to the master and no one is around to hear it, does it even make a sound?

 

**iii.**

you don't tend to steal from museums.

 

vast, cathedral-like rooms have it in them to silence everything, make you feel the bitter and stinging mortality. ashes, ashes, time to come to ashes. the universe is an unravelling thing, with entropy at work, the fate of all is always dust

 

there isn't a time war museum. there are no memorials, no graveyards, because there's nothing left to display. no weaponry or uniforms or wrecked bits of dalek. everything burned, space swallowed it all.

 

(just like earth eats everything, rain washes it, the ground forces it apart and swallows, gorges itself on memories and things-that-never-were.)

 

tenderly, you steal. gently, you snatch memory circuits and regeneration chips, the vicious, forbidden technology that scrambles lost things together, and then, in secrecy, hidden mementos that the master has left around in their run through the universe, bloody daggers and pieces of bone and fingerprints on gun handles. softly, you betray.

 

when you wake them, do not ask them where they came from.

 

construct a new body out of wire and steel, just as sharp and unlovable as yours. install the circuit, run a program. when the master wakes they smile, as if they'd expected you to do just this.

 

it's almost affectionate, and when the master is affectionate they're at their most frightening, at their most efficient, because there's little softness without a measure of ruthlesness, and when it comes to the master, there is none. when they're angry, vindictive, raging, you can handle them.

 

when they _smile,_ on the other hand –

 

(monsters should, you've long since deduced, have claws and fangs and black, shadowy eyes oozing with death; they should not be lovable. well, you suppose that the master probably isn't lovable at all. perhaps, it's just that you're a monster too, and frightful things look lovely to each others.)

 

 

lie to yourself. you deserved it.

 

tell them to pass you the screwdriver, let them brush their mechanical fingers against yours as they do, let them think that they're managing to decieve you, let them succeed. one day the master's going to betray you anyway, just like they always do, so you might as well lie.

 

you are consequences of war, hallowed out by fire and easily destrucatble.

 

(you wonder, if you kissed steel, could you still taste the hatred?)

 

.

 

_but i will not ask you_

_why you were creeping_

_in some sad way_

_i already know._


End file.
